


Male Reader X Female SS Officer

by CampGreen



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Horror, Literature, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 12:29:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13740894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CampGreen/pseuds/CampGreen
Summary: This one isn't adapting any particular character, just an SS officer OC. This is almost certainly a one-time-thing, I'm only doing this because I wanted to do an interrogation story and I'm a huge WW2 nerd. But for the sake of consistency, let's say this is a loose adaption of Treyarch's Call of Duty: World at War and/or Sledgehammer's Call of Duty: WWII.





	1. Battle of the Bulge

_"December 18, 1944,_

_Seven days till Christmas. It sure as hell doesn't feel like it. When I think of Christmas, I think of being snuggled up by the fireplace with my family, only taking the hot cocoa off my lips to sing carols. Shit, come to think of it, back at home, I thought I knew 'cold'. I thought, if it was snowing hard enough that I could build a family of snowmen, I was basically in Antarctica. But sitting here, writing in this dumb journal just to exercise my fingers and ward off frostbite, in the Ardennes Forest, 30 below 0, I think it's stupid that we only use four letters for what I'm feeling like now. 'Cold'. It would take a whole fucking dictionary to even scratch the surface."_

You snap your journal shut and tuck it into your military jacket, which is just about the only thing saving you from hypothermia right now. You tightly hug yourself as you miserably tremble shoulder to shoulder to your squadmates in a trench that's gradually pooling up with snow. 

_"W-W-W-When the hell are we gonna m-m-m-move out, s-s-sarge?"_ a fellow troop asks as he shivers his ass off, a fog machine's worth of heavy air blowing out his mouth with each syllable.

Your sergeant peeks his head out from the trench to scan the surrounding white forestry with a pair of binoculars. The Ardennes Forest is an endless, uneven jungle of hollow and collapsed timber, blanketed in so many layers of snow it's like three blizzards blew through it back to back. A drizzle perpetually falls from the sky as the sun starts to set against it. _"Hold your horses, private. Haven't seen a Kraut patrol in a solid hour. I think it might be safe to hop to the next trench. Oil those joints up, men."_

You all stand up from your curled balls of attempted warmth and sling your rifles off your back. 

_"Jensen, (Y/N). You two go first, give us the all clear once you're half way there."_

The two of you scramble up out of the trench and start a slow walk through the woods, winter boots crunching the snow with every step. The movement warms you up big time, which is a sublime relief after spending an eternity rotting into an ice cube in the depths of a sloppily dug ditch. Just before the two of you get half way to the checkpoint, your heart sinks once you hear a distant whistling. Hell, by the time you register it, it's already right above your head.

_**"GET DOWN!"** _

That was the last thing you ever heard for a while. The rest was just a terrible ringing that never seemed to end. A mortar had punched the Earth next to the two of you, sending you flying into a pile of snow. When your senses finally get shaken back into reality, by the back of your collar you're getting dragged to the trench by another squadmate. Gunfire and yelling bellows from every direction, and your fatigues are covered in all that's left of Jensen. The bullet of a K98k rips its way into your squadmate's heart, putting your slow trawl across the meadow of snow on hold. You give her corpse a traumatized stare before mustering enough strength to shake yourself out of it. You turn over on your stomach and start crawling towards the trench under bullets whizzing from all around. You throw yourself into the deep ditch and get a chance to breathe. You peek your head out and finally get a feel for the situation. Half of your team is in the trench with you, while the other half are moving up the wintry woods, taking cover behind trees as enemy forces start closing in. 

You get blurry glimpses of something dark dashing from trunk to trunk, stopping only to gun down one of your squadmates with inhuman precision. The Waffen-SS. The special forces of Nazi Germany, currently plowing through the rural parts of the Low Countries in a final last stand against the Western Allies. You peek the slender barrel of your Garand out the trench and start lining up and popping off a few shots that flick your eardrums and bruise your shoulder, though the firefight's so chaotic and dreamlike you're not sure how many land, if any. Suddenly a couple Krauts flank you and hop into the trench from the back, taking you all by surprise. The four of you Second D soldiers turn to the right and the battle gets even more entangled from there now that's it's close quarters. You drop your empty M1 and hastily clamber a M1911 from your holster, firing at anything that's black or grey. A Nazi goes for their frag grenade and you put one right between their eyes. The ensuing jerk just barely flicks the pin off as their body slumps to the snow. Right as you realize what you've done, a brother-in-arms tackles you to the ground as you instinctively cup your ears, saving you from another wrestle with tinnitus as the trench goes up in flames. You lay among the wreckage, shellshocked underneath your buddy's smoldering corpse. You finally get some warmth now that the ditch's splintered walls, made from log, crackle at the fire further ravaging it. 

You shove the body off to give yourself some breathing room and are immediately greeted by three barrels staring you in the eye. Your entire squad is dead. Slaughtered by the elite might of the SS. All that remains is you, a couple of enemy soldiers, and their officer. A woman so snow white she almost blends into the background. She's a perfect Aryan, drop-dead gorgeous with icy, piercing blue eyes that shoot you a foxy glare and a flowing mop of pale blonde hair, atop it a slick black peaked cap. As for the rest of her clothing, her athletic and hourglass figure fills a fancy-looking military shirtdress that only goes down to the middle of her thighs, as well as a pair of stockings and boots, all just as dark as her headwear. Well, except for a couple of white gloves and, of course, a Nazi armband hugging her left bicep, as red as the blood staining the ground. If this is the way this psycho dresses in 30 below, there's no wonder she's so ghastly in skintone. Her finger's on the trigger of her Luger, one twitch away from painting the trench's floor with your brains. But a depraved grin curls into her lip and she relents, holding her other hand up as to call her imposing lapdogs off. 

_"Warte kurz,"_ she barks in a voice so sultry you don't even need to understand it to melt into it. _"Mein bauch sagt mir, dass dieser wichtige informationen enthält. Bring ihn nach Stalag."_

She slips her sidearm into her suit as one of her men draw their boot up and let it loose across your forehead, instantly KO'ing you.


	2. Stalag

You awake on a train to Berlin, thrown into its dingy storage car right as it comes to a roaring halt and pulls up to its destination. Your olive army fatigues tweaked into winter clothes are long gone, replaced with a boiler suit and socks to act a prisoner uniform as well as a pair of handcuffs that lock your wrists to your back. The train wagon's door creaks with rust before being dragged open by a German guard, whose sex is rendered indecipherable thanks to the bulky black-and-grey fatigues, steel helmet, and terrifying gas-mask, like every other Nazi mook you've seen. They then seize you by the ankle and drag you out of the car, making their handling of you as needlessly harsh as possible. You weakly rise to your feet and they bash you in the back with the butt of their MP40 to force you forward. Night has sunken into Germany's countryside, as has a modest rainstorm. Any other day you'd consider this forecast cold and miserable, but after spending two days freezing in a rural Belgian winter, this is short sleeve weather as far as you're concerned. Above you hangs gnarly gothic gating and a big wooden sign with white letters painted onto it as hundreds of water droplets bounce off its frame.

_"Stalag III-E"_

A Nazi POW camp. It's all a big fenced-in field crowded with people, some meek and in denim overalls just like you, others towering and ominous in shadowy battledresses just like the asshole that keeps shoving you from behind. You finally get tired of it and tell them to fuck off. Not a smart move. They again butt you with their gun, but this time it's in the head, and starts booting the shit out of you once you're in the dirt, defenseless. A deafening gunshot silences the entire camp. The soldier who was bullying you collapses with a bullet in their head. The shot came from a familiar Luger. It's the officer who got you locked up in this shithole in the first place, standing in a nearby doorway. 

She slides her pistol away after taking her index finger off the trigger, using it to instead wag you over to follow her as she disapperars into a small building, resembling a school gym from the outside. You pull yourself up out of the mud and blood to do as she commands. The second you step foot in the complex, you're shoved into a dimly lit interrogation room, tumbling right into the chair seated opposite of the officer with her legs neatly crossed, separated only by a table with some manila folders stuffed with documents atop it. She takes one of the files and skims through it as she talks to you. 

_"Please excuse any blemished English,"_ she politely prefaces. It's sheerly so mannerly it's mocking, as the rest of what she says is flawlessly worded and spoken and she knows it. _"Now, you are with the...2nd Infantry Division, correct?'_

_"...yes."_

_"Excellent. Intel tells us at the SS that your platoon is planning a precise series of surprise raids upon our many camps dotting the Ardennes, that would cripple our supply lines and essentially lose us the offensive, if successful. It would make our lives a lot easier if we knew which camps will be targeted as to prepare, wouldn't you think?"_

_"...I don't know what you're talking about."_

_"Sure you do, Mr...?"_

_"I'm not telling you my name."_

_"(Y/N), perfect."_

She read your dogtags...

_"Again. You were surely briefed on which of our camps you plan on raiding come Christmas. So tell me, which ones are they?"_

_"I already told you, I don't know what you're talking about."_

_"(Y/N),"_ she leans forward with a smug smirk across her face. _"I have broken Poles, I have broken Brits, I have broken Frenchmen, Dutch, Belgians, Canadians, Australians, Norwegians, and, my magnum opus, Soviets. Some so hardened and experienced they've been through the horrors of the Great War. None of them stood a chance. Do you really think you will, American?"_

_"Do your worst."_

The SS officer chuckles. _"No. No, it won't take my worst, not a tenth of it. As a matter of fact, I'm feeling generous. Let's experiment. Let's see just how weak you really are."_

She snaps her fingers and the guard behind you snatches a handful of your hair, hoisting you up in the air before burying your face into the table and spreading you out on your belly.

 _"Whoa, whoa, easy now, soldier,"_ the officer gently snaps with a hint of genuine concern in her voice. _"We wouldn't want him bruised already, would we?"_

 _"Nein, gnädige Frau, entschuldigung, gnädige Frau,"_ they obediently apologize in an androgynous voice.

She swipes a sleek, glossy inky riding crop from her belt and shreds your pants down to your knees. She interlocks her fingers through a clump of your mane, pulling your hair, and starts thrashing the tail of the whip up against your buttcheeks, making them quiver in fear and pain as they get redder and redder with every spank. You grunt and whimper with each smack on the bottom but the agony is far from insufferable. After about a hundred lashes that consume your backside with scarlet, she twists you around a bit so you can speak face to face. 

_"How about that intel, Fräulein?"_ she taunts.

You spit in her face, making her instinctively cringe as her eyelids slam shut. But then that same damn smile is twisted into her cheeks as she scoops the saliva off by her fingers and shoves it in her mouth, grossly turning your attempt to spite her right back onto you.


	3. Interrogation

After they cool off, the Nazi officer takes two squishy handfuls of your cheeks, squeezing so hard it hurts a bit and leaves behind ten imprints that last for another few minutes. She washes the two skin wrapped bubbles with her cold palms and flashily flutters her fingers, sending powerful jitters and shudders up your spine with a small taste of a guilty pleasure.

She twists you over onto your back, peels your socks off, and uses them to firmly tie your ankles together. She drags the nail of her index finger up one of your soles, making it cringe and you giggle. Like an artist wildly painting their canvas, she starts drawing around on the outline of your feet, making you squirm and chuckle against your restraints. Nine more gradually join in and it doesn't take long till you're laughing your lungs raw as she mercilessly tickles your dogs. Your toes all scrunch and your feet fiercely stir around like a baby twisting its head from side to side to avoid spoonfeeding. She moves her wiggling digits up a few stories, to your ribs. Your uncontrollable laughter doubles in volume as your stomach starts to cramp and your lungs start to wrinkle. 

A fire ravages your abdomen, struck down from the forcefully pleasurable tips of her ten fingers. The Waffen-SS Major arrives at the grand finale, moving a floor down to your pelvis. Like a cropduster, she sweeps her tickling hands back and forth over your genitals. Nails harmlessly scrap across your shaft as it swells only to give her more tissue to torture, and fingertips make your balls bounce even harder than your boner once it fully hardens. Enough tears pour from your clenched-shut eyes to fill a few shot glasses, and your 70 decibel solo of hysterical crying comes to a screeching halt when the stimulation of your package makes it hit a boiling point in the form of an orgasm so big it blankets everything above your waist, including the table. You've never been this exhausted since boot camp.

 _"Now,"_ the officer continues, trying to mask her sadistic amusement with professionalism. _"That was all well and good, but I don't think you'd enjoy another few dozen rounds of that as much as the first time, would you?"_ she teases as she starts sprinkling her fingers between your legs again, making you fire back up into giggling like an engine.

 _ **"NO!** NO! No, please, no, I'll tell you,"_ you beg over the titters so she backs off. You sigh before reluctantly selling your men out. _"We targeted all three camps along the Kriemhild Line, and another camp hidden among the High Fens."_

 _"Tell the Oberstgruppenführer to prepare Camps Burgundy, Xanten, Brünhild, Hagen, and Saxon for ensuing Allied assaults,"_ she barks a businesslike order to the accompanying guard, who watched the whole thing, the creep.

 _"Ja, gnädige Frau,"_ they snap to attention before swiftly departing. You finally pinpoint their sex as female right as they leave the room after noticing her pants are soaked.

The major pulls a pocket mirror and makeup brush out from underneath her black jacket flaps, needlessly applying makeup to her already perfect face as she multitasks in mocking you. _"Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?"_

You pant as you sink into shame over breaking. 

_"Aw, don't feel bad, (Y/N). If it makes you feel any better, I believe if you could handle that, you can handle the next couple sessions of interrogation. Maybe not the forth one though."_

_"...What?"_

She gives you another smarmy chuckle. _"(Y/N). You think all I care about are a few measly supply camps? The Fatherland, I'm afraid to say, is on his last legs. But luckily, an animal is only at its most dangerous when crippled and threatened, having to fend for its life. We will not lose this battle, I'll make sure to that. I know you and your precious platoon have a lot of cards up your sleeves. And I plan on tearing each and every one of them apart,"_ she runs the makeup brush up your shaft, which instantly bloats it back into a hard-on and sends a chill up your spine a thousand times stronger than anything from the Ardennes. _"That's right, Fräulein. I'll make you sing like a canary bird and expose all the Americans' little secrets."_

She starts sweeping your genitals with the fat heavenly bristles like she's smearing butter on toast, and your laughter reaches record breaking highs, torturing your lungs.

 _ **"NO NO NO, WAIT, I'LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING, I SWEAR!"**_ you plead in sheer desperation.

_"You'll tell me everything, just like that?... **Now that's just no fun."**_

From the rest of the camp, your fellow prisoners interpreted your echoing screams for mercy as the haunting cries of your ungodly torture. 

And they weren't far from the truth.  



End file.
